


A Knight Should Kneel, For His King

by AkumaStrife



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Light Dom/sub, M/M, otp: abercrombie&fists, youll pry that otp tag from my cold dead hands im so proud of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 03:33:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10800825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkumaStrife/pseuds/AkumaStrife
Summary: from the kink prompt thread over on tumblr; "on your knees"





	A Knight Should Kneel, For His King

**Author's Note:**

> prompt from this list: http://akumastrife.tumblr.com/post/159840472961/thread-starters-kink-edition

Ronan kisses you like he’s trying to devour you, like there’s something awful in his mouth he’s trying to cover the taste of, like there’s something in you he’s trying to fit inside him. It’s wet and hot and just this side of sharp—too fast and too heavy both inside and out for the day you’ve had.

Kissing Ronan is never just kissing. There’s always a fight or a question or a point to prove behind his lips, trapped between his teeth, tucked down in his throat in secrets he’ll never speak.

You try to slow him down, soften him, but his fingers just dig into your spine, your hips, making a request he’s never known how to ask.

You breathe out heavy and catching, let Ronan steal it from you, and drag one hand down from his skull to the back of his neck. His muscles are tense, knotted up probably all the way down his back. Your fingers itch to work them out, to soothe Ronan until he’s no longer something feral and hurting.

You grip the back of his neck instead. Clamp down tight until it’s a hold, thumb and forefinger pressing into columns of muscle until Ronan stills. He more stutters to a halt, but it’s the same thing.

“Ronan,” you say, quiet and steady and tired.

“What?” he snaps. He noses along your jaw, teeth still nipping, energy thrumming under his skin in time with the relentless music that’s always pouring from the BMW.

“Ronan,” you say again, this time a warning.

He squirms under your hand and ignores you.

“On your knees.”

The change is instantaneous.

Ronan stills, frozen like something dead, before he exhales in a long shudder and a wet sound of swallowing and licking his lips. Slowly he gets down to his knees, making sure nothing he does dislodges your hand.

You make note of that, stroking your middle finger along the side of his neck. You know better than to ask what he wants, what he needs. Ronan has belonged to you for long enough you already have an idea. Or as much of one as you could possibly have, when Ronan is never open enough to confirm anything, and that’s more than anyone else could say.

“Close your eyes,” you say, softer. Ronan’s eyelashes flutter closed to match almost the tone, and he’s breathing deep and purposefully measured. “Good.”

You bend over to kiss the top of his head, indulging in whatever small, soft things he’ll let you. You undo your pants one handed, push down your briefs one handed, stroke yourself unhurried one handed; you keep the other tight on the back of Ronan’s neck and watch his eyes move behind his lids, the thin skin delicate and stained with faint bits of purple. You watch his lips, kiss-swollen and flushed with want, parted slightly around each breath and primed for anticipating what you probably want.

For a wild, defiant idea of a boy he’s oddly well-trained. 

“Open,” you say, rubbing your thumb firm over the head of your dick just to make your toes curl while you watch him obey.

“Just like that,” you whispers. You shuffle closer, dick twitching in your palm at how he leans forward, eager and blind, for it. “Perfect,” as you slide between his lips, panting softly at the wet heat and the desperate sound building low in his throat, the easy-as-anything way Ronan adjusts everything to take you deeper.


End file.
